


The Cabin Up on the Cliff

by KevinEmptyhead



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Gore, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Dom/sub Undertones, Forced Cohabitation, Genital Torture, Guns, Handcuffs, Kidnapping, M/M, Master/Slave, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2020-10-19 05:04:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20651660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KevinEmptyhead/pseuds/KevinEmptyhead
Summary: It was a gloomy day when Theon first met the monster who would make his life the sweet nightmare it is today.





	The Cabin Up on the Cliff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first day (Friday) is finally over, I fit all the stuff I really needed to do in there, everyone's gone to sleep. The next two chapters (Saturday & Sunday) won't have any Ramsay content, I'll be writing more about what Domeric and Roose did before Ramsay showed up, about Theon's life with the Starks and a bit from Damon and The Boys. Ramsay will be coming back on Monday, at school. Look out Theon.

** _Theon might have only been nine years old on that faithful day, but he knew that what was happening would make his life go from bad to inconceivably worse._ **

Even back then he wasn’t particularly liked, he remembered the sneers and the insults, mostly from his brothers; but, one day, he’d heard his uncle, Euron, ask Balon where he’d found the little sissy hanging off Yara’s arms. Theon couldn’t pretend the words hadn’t affected him; he’d disliked the man from then on and he grit his teeth every time he heard the word. The boy knew he looked more like his mother than any of his siblings ever had. He’d often been mistaken for a girl at a young age so when he’d been old enough, he’d let the scruff on his chin grow like a welcome parasite. Who cared that the great Eddard Stark thought he looked like a druggie? Though he’d said so in more polite terms, of course.

On that day he was as clean shaven as a baby, considering that he was no more than nine years old, he’d been dressed in a nice suit for the occasion, they’d all gone overseas to Winterfell for the upcoming elections; to convince the rest of the masses that the people of the Iron Islands had the best of candidates. Theon couldn’t help but realize that they’d never spent any real time together as a family before their weekend in the big city, but it was only wishful thinking to hope it wouldn’t be the last.

They’d all taken a photo as a souvenir, though it had made the front page of the news as more than that. Balon was doing fine at first, or so people had gossiped, but he was known for placing himself and his name on the highest of pedestals and perhaps he had drank a bit too much, so that by the end of his speech people were quite outraged. He’d left, like he hadn’t just spoke of promises more akin to centuries long past than the modern times of today. The eyes trained on him and his family filled Theon with a sense of shame, and he wished, for a second, that he’d never met them. Everything had been filmed and recorded and the next day the new editions of magazines and newspapers Westeros and Essos-wide had had no problem keeping everyone up to date.

It wasn’t hard to predict what would happen next, of the candidates there was only one that had any true chance at the crown; Eddard Stark. The Starks had a history like any of the families in Westeros and Essos.

Unfortunately, or not, for them the Targaryens had lost their stranglehold on the throne when their incestuous family tree had fallen apart at the seams, where the two siblings had gone, no one really knew and Rhaegar, the third, he’d been dead for quite some time, though there was no corpse to account for.

Secondly, the Baratheons, while Robert Baratheon had been the current president at the time; having overpowered the Targaryens, it was hard to believe that he would stay atop his throne after the scandal with his wife, Cersei Lannister, and her brother, Jamie Lannister.

As for the Boltons, well, who would vote for a Bolton; Roose was being delusional if he thought he could become anything other than the mayor of the old, dingy, Dreadfort.

Lastly, the Starks, even if they had laid low for a while, they were well liked, had a good image, maybe even too good. They held many lands under their banners and were known for being the least “insensitive” of the barbarians that inhabited Westeros. Brandon Stark was the current mayor of Winterfell and his younger brother, Eddard, was a respected officer of the law. They weren’t the ideal leaders; not enough backbone, too picture perfect, or so it seemed, that was until the unexpected happened.

●

The morning after Balon’s enlightening declarations, Theon was awoken by horrible banging and shouting in the hotel room next to his and Yara’s, Rodrik and Maron had left the night before, they’d been dispatched and who knew when they’d be back. So, that meant the noise was coming from his parents’ room. Yara was already up, looking at the door nervously, still in her nightclothes she motioned for Theon to stay quiet; a finger against her mouth, and gestured for him to duck under the bed. What took place next was all a blur for the young Greyjoy as he crouched under the bed’s wooden frame, his body trembling with panic; he already felt the aches that would be as he settled in an uncomfortable position.

He heard the door being broken in, the lock giving way, the sound of footsteps on carpeted floor and the voices of men, clearly enraged, he heard his sister, pleading; something she rarely did. He couldn’t help the shaking of his limbs any more than he could help the buzzing in his head, all the sounds melting into an undecipherable cacophony, or the tears pattering on the dusty carpet. Amidst a violent sob he banged his head on the bed’s underside, his eyes drowned in tears widened impossibly so and he promptly covered his mouth with his hand, trying desperately to quell the sobs, though it had to be too late. He didn’t feel the hand grabbing his ankle and dragging him from under the furniture, his eyes squinting because of the light, more so he felt something akin to his heart leaping out of his throat, panic overwhelming him.

●

It was like his brain had short-circuited; it was something that hadn’t happened in a while. Not since Rodrik and Maron had tried drowning him the year before, during summer, saying they wanted to know if he was worthy of The Drowned God’s mercy, but the crooked grins on their faces had done nothing to hide their lies. Theon had struggled, but he was hardly strong enough to take on one of his brothers, nevertheless both and he quickly found himself lungs full of salty seawater. Death seemed right around the corner and he closed his stinging eyes, thinking that maybe, the torment would be over, but it seemed it wasn’t meant to be.

He was happy the water dripping down his face masked his tears because it wasn’t his sister who had gotten them to stop and had lifted his coughing and retching frame out of the waves, it was Euron and the other man’s slimy touch was as repulsive as the way he asked if the little sissy was fine, coated in fake concern; his voice dripped down into the boy’s ears like cold snot and he shivered, jerking out of his uncle’s hold, the question hardly registering in his head. Now that his brothers had been ordered to go back inside, there was nothing stopping him from running away and so he did, hiding in his room for the rest of the summer. His happy walks on the shore forever tainted by foul memories that even the sound of seagulls and skipping stones did nothing to erase.

●

He was being shaken like a ragdoll when he came back from that faraway place in his mind, his hair flying around and sticking to tear-tracks on his cheeks. The first thing he saw, when his hair cleared away from his face, was his father and his mother being held at gunpoint against the wall of his hotel room, contrite looks on their faces, by a man with long brown hair and a greying beard wearing a police uniform. They had their hands in handcuffs. Yara who had been standing next to her bed was nowhere to be seen in the room, but Theon could catch a glimpse of her in the hallway, a woman with auburn hair was talking to her, a frown on her face. Theon caught snippets of their conversation and his heart skipped a beat once again.

\- Take me instead of her, please! He shouted, yanking his arm out of the other, taller, man’s grip. Kill me, I don’t care, but please, leave her alone, I deserve it, not her. Theon ended his declaration, eyes pleading along with his mouth, but his brain wishing that someone would take him away from his hellish family.

The taller man turned to the other, a look on his face as though he were considering the offer.

\- What do you say, little brother? It seems we have a little white knight here, ready to die for his sister; sad he can barely stand on his own two feet. The taller man mocked.

Theon knew they would pick him over Yara, the North rarely left its prejudices behind and it was hard to believe a father would give away his legacy to his daughter. The truth was that Balon preferred Yara over his youngest son, but the people threatening his family didn’t need to know such a thing and the look on his father’s face meant that he was finally proud of something Theon had done and that was all the reward he needed to throw his freedom to the wind. Despite accepting his fate, he was hardly ready for the life of a servant he would have to live, but he had survived his brothers and his uncle, like in everything, the young Greyjoy would adapt and endure, even the brainwashing, the screaming children, the humiliation and the buzzing in his head, everything adding up into calming, soothing white noise.

* * *

** _Theon had never been lucky, nor loved, not even the Starks could, or wanted to change that._ **

He acted like an ass half the time, but even if he acted decent the other half, they didn’t seem to notice the difference. It was as if they’d all agreed behind Theon’s back that the Greyjoy boy was a mess, tainted by his family and his old problems.

They didn’t dare touch him in a friendly manner or consider him intelligent, he was lowly and surely couldn’t even begin to understand the situation he was in. But he did, he understood, he was only a hostage to them, a bargaining chip, to ensure Balon Greyjoy would keep in check. They’d never adopted him; he was not their son and little perfect Robb Stark would never be his brother. He would never be a Stark, would never be a part of that perfect family with their perfect smiles and perfect lives.

He hung on the sidelines at meetings, at events and parties, he never talked to the guests, never met their eyes or uttered any words, he didn’t want to embarrass his keepers, right? They dressed him up regardless, like he was a broken piece of furniture they couldn’t be bothered to renovate, instead they painted over all its flaws hoping it would blend in with their million-dollar egos.

●

That day he’d gone to school, he couldn’t dare miss a single day or Ned would get mad.

Right as his alarm clock rang and he opened his eyes, he felt like complete crap. The sky was grey outside, despite the lack of raindrops and Theon thought his mood fit perfectly with the state of it.

Sometimes he felt like he was falling apart, he had to be sick obviously, but the Starks would never understand the mental stress he felt, he’d never seen them go to the hospital, even less likely that they’d see a psychiatrist, not like Theon. Theon had all the problems you could think of, but then again; maybe he exaggerated sometimes. But that morning he knew he was not exaggerating, unfortunately there was no way he could ask Mr. Stark to stay “home”, it never worked, so he gritted his teeth and tried to place his jumbled thoughts in order as fast as possible.

Getting out of bed was an ordeal, he felt like he was having an out of body experience, he did everything mechanically, routinely. He didn’t remember getting in the school bus, but he must’ve because the driver was yelling in his ear to; get his lazy ass out!

Like at the Stark home, Theon didn’t have anyone to talk to at school, no friends, no confidents, no lovers. He was a pathetic teenager, seventeen and still a virgin. Everyone knew him as the Starks martyr and wouldn’t bother with him, they wouldn’t want to put one of the most powerful families on their backs. Theon would love to have friends, but there was a part of him, the one making him feel like a zombie today, that whispered in his ear; telling him that he would just fuck it up like he always did, strangely, or not, the voice sounded a lot like Ned’s.

Obviously, Robb had started going to the same school and soon Sansa would as well. Theon was in his last year and avoided him like the pest. He was happy he could get out of this hell before the rest of the litter followed. Well, he hoped he would graduate.

He got through his classes but didn’t remember a single word that was said. He was lost in his head all the while, but the teachers didn’t dare to ask him if he was okay, they knew not to. When the bell rang for lunch, he got out the door as fast as possible and hid in one of the bathrooms on the second floor. He ate the sandwich he put together in a haste this morning and tried to fix himself up a bit better. He felt less out of it, and more like a human being again.

At the end of the day, after his final classes, Theon felt okay once more, he had no idea what got him back in the right mindset, he figured it was the passage of time. When he got back to the Stark estate the sun was starting to set, autumn was in full effect and the sky was still grey, Robb was standing next to one of Ned’s cars, it was black and shined even without the sun, his father had probably taken him back home early. He was talking to said man. Theon walked past them, but Mr. Stark ended up taking hold of the Greyjoy’s left shoulder and pulling him back towards them. Theon didn’t want to talk, he felt that lost feeling creeping up on him again, but he kept his ground and waited for the berating to commence.

\- Theon- Ned started, taking a pause. We’re hosting an important event tonight, the Baratheons and the Lannisters are going to be there, and I-, we’d appreciate it if you kept your nose out of here, you could go take a ride, I’ll lend you one of my cars and it’s only for tonight. I’m sure you can understand, it’s important business. He continued, putting emphasis on the b-word.

Theon couldn’t say he was surprised, he hadn’t been invited to any events in a while. But to throw him out of the house was going a bit far: Where was he supposed to go?

\- I understand. Theon answered, though he really didn’t get it.

Robb was standing there, next to his father, stony-faced and silent, his face a perfect copy of Ned’s. Theon didn’t give him a second glance, hating the silent judgement. He grabbed the key Mr. Stark was handing him; staring at it for a long while even after the two of them were gone. He thought of crashing the man’s car, just to piss him off but he dismissed the idea. He checked his wallet to make sure his license was still in there and he got in the driver’s seat. It was starting to get dark outside, so Theon drove off before the guests of honor could arrive.

●

He went to the only place he could think of, it was a little way out of Winterfell, but Theon only had to be back after midnight. The sound of the waves crashing against the cliffside made Theon nostalgic, he’d found the place after he’d been introduced to the Stark household. He’d missed the sea from his younger days around the Iron Islands and this was the only place he could reach it near the big city. He parked the car at the end of the gravel pathway at the mouth of a forest, the colorful trees that flanked him stopping suddenly.

It was completely dark out now and as soon as he took out the key from the ignition, the car’s leather interior was bathed in shadow. He put the key in his pocket, opened the door and headed out. It was cold outside compared to the motor-warmed inside of the car. Theon was only wearing a t-shirt and some jeans, the wind was blowing, he shivered and ignored his sandy hair getting tangled in his face. He walked forward, away from the front of the car and toward the cliff’s edge sitting down in the yellowing grass a few meters away from a certain-death fall.

●

The Iron Islands didn’t hold many good memories for the Greyjoy, his family had never loved him, nor liked him, he was too different to be a Greyjoy, he used to dream he’d been adopted and that someday his real family would come and get him out of that hellhole.

He’d gotten his wish, he supposed, though the god that had granted it had surely misheard him, because the Starks were not his real family and they had only thrust him into a fresh new hell.

Rodrik and Maron had only been delighted to never see their little reject of a brother again, Balon had had nothing to add about his youngest son being taken away, the only one who’d cared, who’d ever cared, had been Yara. She’d seen her little brother as the only good in the Greyjoy name, the only one with any sort of heart. But he’d lost touch with her. Theon had called her once and Ned Stark had lost it, he’d told little Theon to stop talking with lunatics. He missed her. He hoped she was looking at the sea as well, he hoped she knew he was still alive, he hoped she was as well.

●

He was crying, his head filled with cotton, picking at the grass, it was something that happened more often than he’d dare to admit. He would try hard to stop the tears from spilling, but that lost feeling always grabbed at his throat and Theon just couldn’t seem to stop the chocked sobs that spilled from his lips or the warm, wet, tracks that made their way down his cheeks.

●

He hated that the Starks blamed him for his father’s wrongdoings, he was just a child, barely 9 years old, when it had happened, they’d come for Balon after the man had made an announcement in front of the press, he was talking about making murder and thievery legal if he was elected president. Maybe Balon had gotten carried away and had confessed to doing some... things... inadvertently confirming previous accusations made against him. Theon wasn't at fault for being born in a family of criminals, he'd never done anything wrong himself, or had he?

Balon had always had delusions of grandeur about the Greyjoy’s and their ancestry, their ancient ways of life. Ned Stark had seen the statement on TV and had not found the joke funny at all.

Ned Stark was the president nowadays, but back then he’d barely been a runner up.

Ned putting an end to Balon’s career had convinced people to vote for the Stark and the Greyjoys had become a laughingstock of a name.

They’d taken Theon as insurance that the man would stop looking for ways to rule, they would have taken Rodrik or Maron but the two had been out to war, risking their lives, in the worst case scenario Theon would be Balon’s last heir and they’d thought Yara unimportant.

Looking at Catelyn Stark it was not hard to tell that the family stuck to old schools of thought and Theon was happy they’d left his sister alone, she had a future before her, unlike him. He didn’t mind doing the chores; he had nothing else going on in his life, he was just a servant and a burden.

●

He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, not through the buzzing calming down, finally, in his head. When he felt a hand land on his right shoulder he jumped and turned around, landing a hair away from the edge of the cliff.

There was a man standing in front of him, tall and broad, Theon couldn’t make out his features in the dark, his eyes filled with unshed tears, but there was one thing he saw very clearly, the man’s eyes; a cold grey, pale but striking, like the sky had been today, before the veil of night had extinguished it’s flames.

They stood out in the dark, like two beacons, and the way they looked at the sandy-haired teenager made that lost feeling bubble up in him again. Theon swallowed and got up, inching away from the cliff. Realizing that he could have fallen to his death, his heart skipped a beat.

\- Uh, I- I didn’t know this place belonged to someone, I swear. Theon said, unprompted, holding his hands palm-up in front of his chest to show he didn’t want to fight.

Theon’s voice sounded hoarse, his throat full of phlegm, and his face covered in dried tears and snot, his hair sticking to it. In short, he looked like shit. He couldn’t have looked convincing in anyone’s eyes.

\- What are you doing here? The stranger asked, ignoring Theon’s panicked comment.

\- Who are you exactly, I feel like I should know you? The Greyjoy answered, uncertain, running a hand through his hair nervously, feeling cowed in front of the massive man.

\- Yes, you should, the man said, snorting, my name is Ramsay Bolton, he said with a proud twinkle in his eyes, and yes, my father owns this place, he added as a second thought.

Theon swallowed, Bolton, Bolton? He couldn’t have heard right.

\- Bolton, you said, l- like Roose Bolton? I think I should leave, now. Theon muttered. He didn’t know the time, but he must’ve been gone long enough for everyone to have left, right?.

\- Leaving so soon? But we just met, how mean. Ramsay replied, looking disappointed.

Theon had mostly only heard of them, and met them on one traumatizing occasion, but the Boltons were not the type of people he should associate with, Ned Stark had made sure he was aware of that after their little séjour in the Bolton’s cabin, though the prospect of seeing the sea again had kept him coming back. They’d always been holding knives at everyone’s back. The Boltons made their own rules and followed no one, even the president couldn’t put them in their place. They were a family of killers, worse than the Greyjoys, and they were suspected of many crimes, but their influence and money kept them in the clear.

\- Please, just let me go, I- I’m not supposed to- and this isn’t my car, I should go back, I don’t- don’t want to get yelled at. Theon argued unconvincingly, his legs shaking. He knew he made barely any sense at all through his panicked haze.

Theon hadn’t realised that the other man was only a breath away from him, when had he moved? Ramsay took a hold of Theon’s left shoulder; his grip was harsh, much harsher than how Ned’s had been.

\- Then go. He said with a clipped tone of voice right in the shell of Theon’s right ear, his warm damp breath making the hairs on the back of the teens neck stand up to attention. He turned Theon around, making him stumble towards the pathway and Ned’s precious, luxurious car. And don’t come back here, or else… He added, letting Theon’s imagination fill in the blanks. The Bolton had an amused smile on his face all the while, entertained by the situation.

The blue-eyed, sandy-haired teenager barely stopped himself from hitting the ground face first. As soon as he regained his balance he ran for the car, key already retrieved from his pocket, he got in and put it on drive, making a U-turn and getting further away from the creep, mile after mile. The man was still standing on the cliff, staring at the car, Theon kept his eyes on him up until he lost sight of his silhouette in the dark, the sound of the waves ominously disappearing along with him.

●

Theon drove “home”, feeling on edge, that lost feeling creeping up on him, but more aggressively, he parked the car in front of the estate and ran inside, dropping the key in Robb’s lap in passing, the redhead nearly jumping out of the living room’s sofa to get in Theon’s face.

Theon ignored the rest of the occupants, whether they were Lannisters, Baratheons or even The Drowned God himself, Theon didn’t give a flying fuck right now. Their voices were just like the buzzing in his head; they made no sense at all.

He ran up the infinitely long flight of stairs to the second story and walked past dozens of rooms, he reached the hatch leading to the attic, opened it and climbed up, hiding away in his bedroom, ignoring Robb yelling his name downstairs. He didn’t want to know what he’d done to piss off the little angel, he just wanted to sleep away the earlier encounter as if it had never happened. So, closing his eyes, Theon fell asleep on his ratty old futon, wishing, like every other night, that he’d never wake up.

* * *

** _Ramsay Snow was a prime example of bad parenting; of an unwanted, unplanned birth._ **

Most would say he was born the way he is now; others would blame his mother for having neglected him or his father for leaving her with this burden.

But Ramsay did not know who his father was, or if he had ever even existed beyond the date of his conception, so he blamed his mother, blamed her for the fact that he had no friends, other than Damon, who surely couldn’t find a brick in a haystack. He blamed her because he just couldn’t seem to understand what other people felt.

The only people who followed him did so out of enforced fear or respect and never out of simple, unasked for, want.

●

He was seventeen when he met his father for the first time, he was well dressed, his suit a dark red, almost like blood and his pants, shoes and shirt were black like the night sky. He had graying hair and his face was old and thin, none of his features were akin to Ramsay’s, except one, the color of his eyes.

The man had just lost his one and only legitimate son the month prior to his visit. Domeric had been the boy’s name, but Ramsay had hardly cared, he’d never met him, and it seemed like he was expected to take up his half-brother’s place.

Ramsay was not the type to be second place or second choice, but he would have done anything to get out of his mother’s way, he was tired of her annoying pig’s voice telling him how disgusting he was in her eyes. He was aware that the fact his father knew of his existence... well, meant that he’d left Ramsay here all this time, but he couldn’t let his pride take him away from this supposed freedom.

●

The man’s name was Roose Bolton, Ramsay had heard of the Boltons, everyone living in the North had, even deaf fools. Roose Bolton was the mayor of Dreadfort and Ramsay had disliked his father from the moment he’d entered his new home.

The man had no intention of making him enjoy his stay, he was only there to ensure Roose had someone to take over his work in the not so near future. His father had all sorts of rules and tasks for Ramsay to follow, some more illegal than others.

●

A few days later, after Ramsay had settled himself in, Roose held him at arm’s length in a long hallway in front of a massive oak door, his other hand on the door’s handle.

\- I have heard about you; I am sure we will get along. He told Ramsay with an unhealthy flame in eyes that looked so much like his bastard son’s. That boy who follows you, Dalton was it…

\- His name is Damon and he’s my friend. Ramsay interrupted, answering through gritted teeth. Not my follower. He added.

\- No matter. Roose replied, dismissing Ramsay’s comment, he'd seen how the other teen feared his bastard son, he wasn't fooled. He seems to follow your every word; I am proud of you; you may be a bastard, but you are without a doubt of Bolton descent.

He opened the impressive door and lead Ramsay inside, closing it but not locking it, unconcerned with anyone interrupting them.

The room hidden by the door was an office, there was a large table in its center, a map of the North spread out over its surface. A desk was at the table’s left, on it you could find two monitors and piles of paperwork. Close to the wall, a large painting of Roose, his fat wife and Domeric which was situated behind the desks leather chair. In the painting they were all dressed in red and black and the Boltons banner could be seen in the background. Ramsay would never be in that gold embellished frame; he knew it deep down.

\- You will continue Domeric’s work. Roose picked up where he’d left off. You can have your… friend… help you if you want. He told Ramsay.

\- What do you want me to do? Ramsay asked, somewhat doubtful.

Roose walked around the table to the edge of it, blocking out the window on the wall opposite the door, pointed to a spot on the map and told Ramsay to go to a small cabin in the woods. A place to the west of Dreadfort, in the forest near the cliffs that lead to the sea.

\- You will know what to do once you get there. It was all he had to give in terms of instructions. Oh… and… I will call you Bolton if you call me Father. He added as if he hadn’t been waiting all this time to tell Ramsay just that. He lifted his head and his piercing grey eyes filled with glee were staring right at Ramsay.

\- Yes… Father. Ramsay answered. He kept a straight face, hoping he would figure out what he'd just thrown himself into, eventually.

●

As soon as he found himself out of the man’s line of sight, he called Damon, climbed into the car he’d just been given, stared at the grey sky hoping it wouldn’t rain, and added his destination to the integrated GPS, like he’d been instructed. He knew he had to take the high ground someway, somehow, like he always did, no one could control him, he did the controlling. Roose Bolton would just be a steppingstone; a way to get a name that meant something, not a bastard's name like Snow.

Ramsay drove all the way to the outskirts of Dreadfort, picking up Damon along the way.

He explained the situation to his friend hoping he would know to keep his mouth shut. Ramsay had to figure out his place in this... thing... before he could use it to his advantage and if Damon started prattling to everyone about Ramsay's new parentage, they wouldn't get very far.

●

\- You’re the mayor’s son? No way! Damon asked incredulous, sitting in the backseat

\- I just told you I was, don’t make me repeat myself, you know I don’t like it. Ramsay replied, peeved. He wants me to pick up where my… half-brother… left off, you’ll help me no matter what, won’t you? Damon? He added keeping his eyes on the road, never looking back at his buddy.

\- Of course, Ramsay, I’d never turn my back on you. He replied, swallowing harshly. What is it he wants us to do, exactly? He asked concerned.

\- You'll see when we get there, now, stop asking useless questions. Ramsay answered in a clipped tone, trying to look flippant even tough he himself didn't know what awaited them.

Signaling that he didn’t want to talk any longer, he fiddled with the radio, turning the volume up.

●

When he got to the cabin surrounded by colorful trees, it was still light out and the grey sky accompanied by the incessant sound of waves crashing below seemed to be the perfect backdrop to what he was unknowingly about to do. 

* * *

** _Through the gibberish Ramsay could make out something about a man named Balon who had jumped off a bridge._ **

As the car came to a stop in front of the cabin the radio stuttered out a few words through it’s static, the station cutting off by intervals, now that they were so far outside of town. He found he couldn’t have cared less about some idiot who had trouble keeping his balance and took the key out of the ignition, cutting off the senseless babbling. He walked out of the car, the cold autumn wind blowing all around him, lifting the first of the fallen leaves with it. He motioned for Damon to stay inside for now.

He walked up to the structure to the small shed next to it, opened it’s door and found nothing but tools inside, exactly what it looked like on the outside, a tool shed. He felt played for a second, who did Roose think he was?! The word “Father” resonated in his ears in his own treacherous voice and Ramsay ignored it. Then he saw it, a hatch on its cement floor, a basement?

The dark-haired teenager inched towards it, strangely it wasn’t locked though it was quite heavy, and he almost feared he would need both hands to lift it. Once he had successfully removed the lid Ramsay walked down the few steps, well, he tried, as soon as he reached the middle of the staircase he was hit with the smell of decaying flesh. So strong, he nearly threw up all over his brand-new shoes. The teen expected to find only dead bodies scattered on the floor, instead, there he found a man, a living man. The man’s back was facing him, and he could tell that the individual was as big as a strongman, though he could not tell with certainty if it was fat or muscle that hid underneath his clothes. The person did not seem to hear Ramsay’s footfalls not over the muffled screams that acted as background noise in the small cramped space.

The man turned around slowly, reaching for a surgical tray placed atop a small table near the rooms left wall. He jumped, finally noticing the teenager standing there like judgement incarnate.

\- Ah, you must be Roose’s new… apprentice. I’m Wolkan, the Bolton family doctor. He reached out with his hand, waiting for him to shake it.

Lovely, Ramsay thought rolling his eyes, he looked down at the man’s appendage, it was covered with dried, crusted blood. He then started to pull it away, realizing that it wasn’t quite sanitary.

\- I’m Roose’s son, Ramsay Bolton. He corrected, grabbing the man’s hand and shaking it firmly before he could pull it away too far, looking him straight through.

\- I see, you do have the same eyes, I suppose. Wolkan replied, tugging his hand out of the strong grip, swallowing, avoiding the gaze that reminded him so much of his employer.

The grey-eyed teen stared behind Wolkan, down at the floor, there was no denying the origin of the smell, and there was more than one; body, that is.

\- Well, I should be going. Wolkan said, clapping his hands together in a fake display of excitement, he looked as uncomfortable as a claustrophobic vegan in a packing box full of bloody, raw meat.

He was about to push Ramsay out of the way so he could climb out, but the teenager did not budge.

\- Wait a minute, you’re leaving them here!? Ramsay said, incredulous, pointing to the floor next to the back wall.

\- Ha-ha ha… The man laughed nervously. I’m not exactly qualified to do this, Domeric was the one who got rid of the bodies, usually. He scratched at his beard. I’m just here to make sure _she _stays alive. He added, looking green in the face.

Ramsay’s lips pursed, he looked down at the woman on the ground, Roose’s words resonating in his ears: “I want you to continue Domeric’s work…”, he nodded and stepped aside, the man leaving hastily.

He heard hurried footsteps and looked away from her, they were coming towards him and he looked up just in time to see Damon retching down the steps.

\- Holy shit, what’s that smell?! Worse than blue cheese, worse than Reek stunk, and that’s saying a lot! Damon yelled, hacking up the last bits of bile from his stomach. He was holding his long blond hair out of his face, peering down at Ramsay who didn’t look amused at all.

\- I told you to wait in the car. Ramsay seethed through his teeth. And you’re not exactly helping the situation; puking all over the steps, but I guess now that you’re here… you could help me with… this. He added, pointing behind him.

* * *

** _Ramsay had learned how to break people from the best mentor he could have ever asked for._**

Ramsay was a problem child and being born on the poor side of Dreadfort he had hardly cared about school, he went to the same one every money-less idiot did. The things he would like to learn would never be taught behind those depressing brick walls, not by the teachers, at least. Thankfully he had met someone who was very much up to the task.

The janitor kept to himself most of the time, his stench could cover at least a square yard. The name tag on his coveralls said Heke, but Ramsay had named him Reek, he found it more fitting. Whatever was wrong with the man, he did not seem to know himself. He had shown all sorts of things to the boy Ramsay had once been, things that had stuck more than any lesson he’d ever been told.

Ramsay and Damon had spent most of their days skipping class to get a chance to learn something new from a man with real life experience. From lock-picking to thievery, torture, sex, drugs; he’d done it all.

He’d been fourteen when their glorious hour had come to an end. Ramsay Snow had never been very liked, not with the girls or with the boys, a certain girl had always irked him, her name was Kyra and she couldn’t seem to keep her mouth shut.

It had been a sunny day when Reek had grabbed her and dragged her to the broom closet, Ramsay had only watched but he’d enjoyed every moment of her torture and rape. Reek’s smell had made her puke all over herself and she had cried for help during the entire ordeal, looking at Ramsay with teary eyes, like he would have given her the time of day. They’d been found out by the director himself, Reek’s hands around her fragile throat.

Ramsay had been kept out of the proceedings, the officers had called him a poor child and that he just hadn’t know any better. He’d been assigned a psychiatrist to make sure he hadn’t been traumatized. Founding it amusing, he had faked his tears and the mindless adults had fallen for his act. Reek had not been spared; they didn’t need much to incriminate the red-handed man. He’d been moved out of town, put in an isolated psych ward because of his never leaving stench.

Ramsay had dropped out of high school shortly after, only in his first year, losing interest without his primary source of entertainment. Kyra had become as quiet as a mouse and ignored Ramsay at every turn, not that he wanted to have a conversation with her, or that he regretted what he’d let happen to her, it’s what she got for calling Ramsay a bastard.

●

Looking down into the eyes of the woman at his feet Ramsay knew he had to be the one doing the brunt of the work now. It was time to become the master. He took the file he found on a desk to his right, it was opened and there was a photo of her printed on its first page. Her name was Yara Greyjoy and he vowed to learn everything about her; the whys, the wheres, the hows and the whos. He sat down on a stool he found leaning against the desk’s side and started to read.

* * *

** _Ramsay stared at the photo he’d found in the file for a little while more._ **

It was a photo of the Starks, the famous president’s family, but there was a strange boy standing awkwardly to the far right of them.

The photo had been taken a few years prior and the caption underneath it said: “From left to right; Jon Snow (11), Bran Stark (4), Robb Stark (11), Sansa Stark (8), Catelyn Stark (29), Eddard Stark (31) and Theon Greyjoy (15).”

He traced the name back to another photograph, this one much older, the boy was eight years old, this one’s caption said; “From left to right; Yara Greyjoy (11), Rodrik Greyjoy (19), Maron Greyjoy (18), Balon Greyjoy (32), Alannys Greyjoy (30) and Theon Greyjoy (8).

Again, the boy was on the edge of the frame, like he hadn’t been wanted there at all and his face said the same. On the page it had been printed on, there was an immense paragraph about the teen’s role in all this mess, written by the file’s previous owner.

Domeric seemed to believe he could get to the Starks through the Greyjoys, but to Ramsay he was going at it the wrong way, it was obvious the Starks did not care about the lost boy they hosted under their roof. An idea took root in his mind and he smiled behind the hand he was leaning on.

●

Damon was staring over Ramsay’s shoulder, he peered at the page, pointing his finger at the name _Balon Greyjoy_.

\- Isn’t that the name of the guy who fell off a bridge, that’s what it said on the radio, I think. Damon grumbled, clearing his throat and scratching the tip of his nose.

Ramsay rolled his eyes, making back and forth movements with his other hand over his shoulder to tell his friend to stop eavesdropping. He put down the papers he was observing and stared down at the bound woman at the foot of the back wall. Her blue-green eyes which were staring at him were filled with hatred and weariness.

\- Who cares about that, he’s dead, he won’t be of any use to us! Ramsay exclaimed. But her, she’s his sister… and she’s alive. He added. I’m sure she can make herself _useful_.

He got up and off the stool, he walked towards the surgical tray the doctor had left behind, adjusting his clothing all the while, and ran his eyes over each piece of equipment he found, until they fell on something that piqued his interest.

\- Close the shed’s door and the hatch, will you. Ramsay threw the comment over his shoulder to Damon, offhandedly.

He grabbed the strange looking knife and twirled it around in his hand. It had a hook at its tip, and he pressed a finger to it, it seemed to struggle to cut through his skin and Ramsay surmised that it was not well sharpened.

When he turned towards the captive with knife in hand Damon had closed the hatch, the blond-haired teen looked more nauseous now than ever, the smell of decaying corpses having nowhere to escape to. As he came back towards Ramsay, he stared at the knife the other was holding with morbid curiosity written in his eyes.

\- What is it for? He asked, the same wonder lacing his voice.

But Ramsay was not paying him any attention, instead he was staring down at the woman’s eyes, she was staring back at Ramsay with unbidden fear and loathing, no… she was not looking at Ramsay, she was staring at the knife. He assessed the piece of forged metal and wondered what it had been used for, that she was more scared of a piece of barely sharpened alloy than the stranger holding it.

\- Untie her gag. Ramsay told him.

Damon stared at Ramsay with incredulous eyes, but when Ramsay did not take back his statement or give him a second glance he walked forward and executed the task, almost getting bit in the process.

\- What the hell! He spit out, jumping back and pulling his hand away a second before the woman’s teeth clanged together.

He threw the spit and blood covered rag to the ground, inching back to keep his distance.

\- Stop being such a bitch, she’s tied up. Ramsay muttered, shaking his head. What could she do? Give you rabies? He mocked.

Ramsay walked towards her without a concern in his head. It was only now that he noticed she was completely naked, he grabbed her legs and pulled them away from her face. Holding them down with one of his heavy boots. Now that she no longer was curled in on herself, he could see the various cuts and bruises all over her body, some of the cuts were deep and long and he stared down at the strange slab of metal in his hand. He crouched down to get to eye level with her and pressed it against her cheek.

\- Why don’t you tell me what this is for, you seem to be an expert? He asked her, eyeing her multitude of scars, smiling a deranged smile.

Yara started laughing, a hoarse laugh, her vocal cords unused for so long. She aimed her head and spat in Ramsay's left eye. He kept it opened, unblinking, unfazed, it trickled down his cheek and he wiped it away.

\- I won’t tell you shit, you whore-son, your brother failed and so will you. She answered, still laughing. I’ll kill you as soon as I get out of here, like _I _killed him. She added, her eyes burning with fury.

\- I’m sure I can find out on my own. Ramsay sneered, straightening back up. After all, there’s no better learning process than a hands-on lesson. He added, nonchalantly, wiping his wet hand on the front of his pants.

\- Don’t you think so too, Damon? The tall, dark haired teenager asked him, turning towards his friend, smirking from giddiness.

Damon swallowed and nodded, looking down at the strange knife, he knew that blood would spill soon, and he didn’t want it to be his own.

* * *

** _Damon disliked the way Ramsay was staring at him right then, it reminded him of the day he’d nearly died, the cold grey eyes had stared at him that same way._ **

They sparkled like they expected him to be endlessly grateful, they wanted something, and Damon was too scared to deny his “friend” anything.

On that day he had been hiding from his mother, he had told her he’d gone to see a friend, but it was a blatant lie, hopefully, Skinner would cover for him if she was doubtful.

Damon had always liked heavy metal, but his mother had always told him it would influence him badly, she never offered him any pocket money unless she was certain he wouldn’t spend it on a “useless” entry pass. So, he had learned to access his passion without spending a penny. Most concerts that went on near his tiny little town took place in the open and on that day him and Skinner, both twelve years old, took their bikes down to the concert venue. They could see the large stage and the crowd of people and they couldn’t help their growing grins.

They were too young to get in, but they didn’t need money or age to be sneaky. They threw away their bikes in a ditch a dozen or so meters away from the entryway and made their way where they knew no one would spot them, climbed up the side of the metal fencing and jumped over it. They landed near an unoccupied stand and ducked behind it, waiting for the crowd to get denser. When there was an alright amount of people, they trudged their way into the sea of moving bodies, confident that no one would notice them if they blended in. Hiding their naked wrists with long sleeves.

Everything was going according to plan, but when the mosh pit started Damon found himself tripping out of nowhere, losing sight of his friend, he landed face first on the torn-up grass and the exposed dirt. When he felt boots landing on his back he rolled over, protecting his face with his arms, he didn’t want to get a broken neck. The dirt and dust washed up in the air by the stampeding feet made him cough.

Through the hits he saw an outstretched hand and he grabbed it without much thought. At the end of the extended arm was a man with a sharp grin. Damon got back his footing and the stranger led him out of the constantly moving wall of people. He could barely hear anything over the thrumming music, but the further away they got, the more he could make out the other’s nasally voice.

\- Don’t you know kids aren’t allowed here? The stranger asked him, still smiling. You want to make your parents cry? He added, amused, like it was a joke.

He eyed Damon up and down with his ghost grey eyes. The blond-haired teen hid his bracelet-less wrist behind his back, hoping the creep hadn’t seen, but he was no fool.

Damon was covered in barely blooming bruises and a good helping of dirt, a nick on his forehead bleeding down to his brow, his hair in a tangle. The stranger found him… intriguing… to put it nicely.

\- If you thank me, I’ll let you go. The stranger told him, haughtily. You wouldn’t want your parents to know you’re a criminal. He added, fake concern dripping down his every word.

Damon didn’t see why the other was making this so awkward, of course he would thank him for saving his ass from a good beating.

\- Eh, thanks. Damon provided, forcing himself to smile.

\- For what!? He needled.

\- Ah-what? For saving me, I guess. The blond-haired teen proposed, scratching the back of his head awkwardly.

\- For saving you, for saving your what? The man lowered his voice, the music dying down behind him, the people calming themselves.

Damon refused to answer any further and the dark-haired teenager looked exasperated.

\- For saving your _life_, obviously! He spat. Haven’t you heard? You could’ve died in there. He specified, pointing behind him to the dispersing crowd.

Of course, he’d heard the stories, they all had, of people being trampled to death and he didn’t particularly want to be made an example of, but the crowd wasn’t that big today and he would have been fine. Damon saw Skinner coming towards them behind the strangers back and the stranger noticed him too. He smirked and looked back and forth between the two “friends”.

\- Come on, thank me _properly_ and go see your little friend, and if anyone asks you; you never saw me. He said, cutting their encounter short.

Damon eyed Skinner nervously and swallowing his pride he did what he’d been told.

\- There must be something wrong with you. He accused. But, thanks for saving my… life. Damon sneered along with the final word, shaking his head.

The other didn’t seem to appreciate the accusation, his eyes narrowed, and his lips thinned, he looked about ready to blow a gasket, but he breathed in slowly and recollected himself.

\- You shouldn’t assume things about other people. He answered, his cold eyes never leaving Damon’s face. The band started to play again, and he took hold of the blond teens arm, tugging him towards Skinner and the stage. Go on, dance for me, I’ll be watching you. The stranger spoke, looking satisfied once again.

He was gone before Damon could feel offended, finding himself in front of a concerned Skinner.

\- Who was that you were talking to? He asked Damon.

\- No one, it was no one at all. He told his friend, not forgetting what the other had told him. I think we should leave.

And they did, the same way they had come in, but this time Damon glanced behind him and he caught the stranger’s eyes staring straight at him. He tried to ignore him, his gaze burning at his back, he swallowed nervously continuing to climb.

While they drove away on their bikes, Skinner kept looking at his friend with a question in his eyes. Damon had plenty to tell him, but nothing he could bring past the knot he was chocking on.

●

So, as the sun came down Damon made his way to his room, ignoring his parents concern over his appearance, saying that he’d fallen off his bike when they asked for an explanation.

●

The next day he’d gone to school and had seen the stranger there, he couldn't believe they were the same age, then he wondered why he'd never noticed him before. Damon spent his day with Skinner and avoided him the best he could, but then... he had to talk to him eventually; they went to the same school.

●

Ramsay was a manipulator and the more things Damon did for him, the more he had trouble finding reasons to deny him. Then Reek had happened and who knows what Ramsay had done to Kyra, but Damon felt even more stuck. It was hard to spend time on his band, The Boys, when he had one foot in the grave and the other held in Ramsay's vice.

Skinner and Ben were always asking questions and Damon didn’t know what to tell them the next time he missed a practice session, they needed their drummer.

Thankfully, the two knew next to nothing about Ramsay, all thanks to Damon’s expertly lying mouth.

* * *

** _Damon had to remind himself why he was doing this as he hauled the woman_****_’s_ ** ** _ struggling body up and tied her hands to a hook dangling from the ceiling._ **

He shoved the rag he’d retrieved back in her cursing mouth, tied it as tight as it would go behind her head, her short hair getting tangled in the knot.

The light flickered, threatening to give out. Ramsay’s eyes seemed to glow in the badly lit room, unnameable desires dancing in his irises. Damon backed up, a shiver rolling like a wave down his spine, not feeling like getting involved in his “friend’s” little games.

\- Damon, where do you think you’re going? Ramsay’s voice sang.

He pointed the strange knife at his friend, keeping his eyes trained to the woman’s twitching legs, her toes barely touching the cold cement floor. He beckoned his friend closer with his empty hand.

\- Take your clothes off, now! Ramsay ordered. And don’t ask _any_ questions. He pursed his lips, waiting to be obeyed.

Yara looked behind her at Damon, her neck straining to catch his eyes, hers were wide and her stare wild. She was panting, her throat kept trying to swallow the spit overflowing in her mouth. She tried desperately to dissuade him, but it wasn’t for her that he was most afraid, it was for himself if he did not do what he’d been told. Ramsay cleared his throat, clearly annoyed that the blond-haired teen seemed to be taking his sweet time.

Damon looked away from her and grabbed the zipper of his leather jacket, tugged it down as fast as humanly possible and threw the garment to the ground. He tugged his t-shirt up and over his head and let it fall in the same spot.

He felt his skin prickle under the room’s cold air, his heart beating in a folly and a cold sweat starting to break over his whole body.

He removed his boots without untying the laces, kicked them aside, took off his socks when Ramsay stared at him expectantly. He moved his hands reluctantly to the button of his jeans, undid them and slipped them down his legs in one smooth motion. When he got to his underwear, he stilled.

\- When I told you to take off your clothes, I meant _everything_. Ramsay commented, offhandedly, pointing at Damon’s boxers with the hooked tip of the knife.

Damon had trouble ignoring the urge to ask questions, to simply ask; why? He opened his mouth several times and every time; he closed it, Ramsay’s cold eyes shutting him up. Finally, finding no reason to stall the inevitable, he tugged them off. And there he stood, completely naked in front of the person who most likely held his life in their hands. He felt this was the point of no return he’d feared all this time. He’d walked in the trap, there was no turning back; the door was shut.

\- Come over here, lift her legs up and apart… and don’t move an inch. He instructed.

He walked forwards, staring at anything that wasn’t the Greyjoy or Ramsay, like at the very _welcoming_ cement floor, grabbed at the back of her knees and pulled her legs open as far as they would go, holding her weight with his arms, each supporting one leg. He stood behind her, holding her slightly away from his body, he wasn’t blind to the way her buttocks nearly came in contact with his cock.

Ramsay approached, openly enjoying Damon’s current discomfort. When he stood an inch from Yara’s body he adjusted his hold on the knife, staring into her mocking eyes. She didn’t seem impressed, her face saying that she’d endured it all, that Domeric had failed and he would too. But Ramsay never did things halfway.

He grabbed her left hip and pushed the knife to her inner thigh, looked up at Damon and smiled.

\- Finger her open for me, would you? He asked, the smile growing.

Damon swallowed, dropped her left leg and moved a finger to her vagina. Ramsay slid his hand away from her hip and grabbed the dropped leg.

\- _Two_. Ramsay scoffed. We don’t have all day.

He pulled his finger back, pressed two together, spat on them and moved his hand back in place. He knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant, but then, he supposed that wasn’t the point, so he started to push. He felt her cringe against him, but he kept it up, avoiding Ramsay’s searching eyes.

When he got to three, Ramsay was showing signs of impatience and he scissored them apart, trying to stretch her enough to fit a fourth one. He pulled them out, pressing his thumb to the inside of his palm and pushed all four of his fingers inside. He could feel the rip before the blood trickled down his hand and he was the one to cringe. He pulled his fingers out, having nowhere to wipe the blood off; he left it there, defeated.

Ramsay gave Damon back the task of holding her leg. With his hand free he stilled Yara with a hand on her hip. He pushed the strange hooked knife to her clit and the top of her folds and slowly traveled it down to her vagina and... pushed it inside without prompting. Yara’s scream reverberating against the confines of the basement, even with the gag in her mouth.

Damon was looking at Ramsay with wide, incredulous eyes, his mouth opened in a retching motion, but he had nothing left to throw up. He nearly dropped her legs, but her screams made him tighten his hold, every movement making the pain worse.

Ramsay did not pull out the knife and nor did he stop. Scraping the knife against her insides he realized that her flesh seemed to want to part against the large hooked tip, but the badly sharpened edge made the task impossibly hard, but he persevered.

He listened to her screams, they felt like music to his ears and Ramsay couldn’t help how hard he was in his pants. When he saw she was sweating buckets and her body was limp he pulled out the blade. The splatter of blood and flesh falling to the floor the final note of his symphony.

Damon finally dropped her, his body was covered in gore and he dry heaved until he could breathe properly. Ramsay was panting, his blood running hot, the grin on his face wider than it had ever been. He stared at her, her fatigued eyes barely focusing on his face.

\- You’ll do what I want you to, now, won’t you? He spoke in a sickly-sweet voice.

He took hold of the rag in her mouth and ripped it off. Just for her to spit in his face, again. Ramsay was fuming, like a child who’d been denied a piece of candy.

\- Damon, come back here. Ramsay said in a glass sharp tone of voice.

Damon slowly made his way back to where he was standing before, Ramsay backed off; looking at his friend with a demanding glint in his eyes.

\- Make yourself hard, go on. Ramsay chuckled. You can close your eyes if it helps.

Damon took hold of his penis and he did follow Ramsay’s advice; he closed his eyes, even though it didn’t help much. When he was at half mast, Ramsay cleared his throat and he opened his eyes letting go of his cock.

\- Fuck her, then I’m sure she’ll understand. He spoke. Don’t you think so, Damon?

An alarm rang in Damon’s head and he couldn’t take it this time, his penis flaccid. He backed off, but Ramsay grabbed his arm before he could get far. He pushed the knife to Damon’s neck, not amused at all.

\- You’ll do it _and_ you won’t ask any questions! Ramsay powered on, pressing the knife to his friend’s skin.

Damon pushed Ramsay’s arms away from him, the gesture did not please the other teen, but Damon could hardly care, he did not want that knife anywhere near him.

\- Fine, I’ll do it. Damon muttered. Just don’t touch me with that… thing. He pointed at the blade.

He stared at Yara, already regretting his words. He took his cock in hand, made himself hard again, through the power of fear and will only, and moved forward to grab her hips before he could back out. She jerked away from him.

\- No, no, no… No! Don’t you put that in me! She wailed.

Ramsay laughed loud enough to shake the walls, he moved back in front of her, satisfied things were going his way.

\- Then you’ll listen to me. He spat. It’s not c_omplicated_!

Yara struggled, trying to hold herself away from both of her rapists.

\- I will! She screamed, her throat feeling raw. Alright, I fucking will!

She feared that feeling, she’d thought she had known the pain that knife could put her through, but she had been wrong. Whatever thoughts ran through the head of the man in front of her, it was best she did not find out. She was crying, her mind wanting to shut down.

Ramsay simply smiled; his face distorted in a mask of pure satisfaction. He hit her temple with the knife’s pommel, hard enough to knock her out. He looked down at the slowly growing puddle of blood on the ground and he turned around.

\- Put your clothes back on and get to the car. Ramsay instructed, his mind elsewhere.

Damon fixed himself quickly, struggling to pull his boots back on. When he was done, he climbed up the stairs, pushed at the hatch until it opened and pulled himself out.

Ramsay walked back to the desk and thumbed through the files, when he found what he’d been looking for he pulled his phone out of his pocket, left a message and turned back to stare at the rotting bodies on the basement’s floor.

He found a shovel up in the shed, handed it to Damon who was leaning against the car and went back inside, took hold of the two corpses and pulled them up the stairs.

It was starting to get dark as they walked to a spot of yellowed grass surrounded by countless trees. Ramsay dropped the bodies down like two sacks of potatoes, grabbed the shovel; and started to dig.

●

An hour later, both bodies were six feet under, and Ramsay had leveled the ground as best he could with the shovel’s flat slide. It was dark, without a single star in the cloudy sky. The sound of a car reached Ramsay’s ears and he motioned for Damon to duck down, giving him the shovel.

He walked towards the pathway at a leisurely pace, following the car’s headlights with his eyes until they shut off. Ramsay kept making his way towards the cleared-out part of the forest, keeping the figure who had walked out of the vehicle in his line of sight.

When he got level with the car, he could see it was obviously expensive, the reflection on the black paint making it very noticeable, even with the moonlight barely peeking through the clouds.

The boy sitting in front of him looked like nothing special from the back, well that was until he grabbed his shoulder and he saw the teen’s reaction. His face covered in tears and snivelling, he looked perfect, Ramsay’s cock gave an interested twitch at the lost look in those sea-blue eyes.

Running away the teen dropped something, pushing it out of his jeans pocket when he grabbed his car keys, but Ramsay waited to check what it was, staring at the car until it was out of sight.

When he crouched to the ground and grabbed whatever it was, he realised it was a wallet, with a smiley face on it. He opened it, grabbing the first card he saw. He took out his phone, pointed the flashlight at it and his smile reached his ears when he read the name printed on it; Greyjoy… Theon.

* * *

** _After he’d placed the wallet in his jeans’ pocket Ramsay had retraced his steps back to Damon’s crouching form._ **

As they approached the car, he gave one last look to the cabin.

He was about to climb in the driver’s seat when the blonde’s voice halted him.

\- Wait-wait, Ramsay! Damon barked, clearly disturbed. I can’t just leave looking like that. He added pointing to himself. I look like I just rolled around on the floor of a slaughterhouse! He grumbled.

Ramsay straightened his back, peering at his friend’s face over the roof of the car. His mouth twisted itself into a grimace, he always forgot Damon lived with and talked to people who weren’t him. He thought for a second, his eyes searching for an answer. They stopped on a water hose, on the ground outside the cabin.

\- I guess you could use a wash. He said, contemplating his idea. Stand there… naked. He added pointing to a spot close to the hose.

Damon looked offended for a moment, but then noticed what Ramsay was pointing at. His face looked grim when he removed his clothes for the second time, laying them on the roof of the car, away from the dirt.

\- I’m sure you find this hilarious. He asked, not expecting an answer.

\- Oh, I’m having a wonderful time making you suffer, Damon. Ramsay’s voice was laced with amusement, but the other teen had a feeling the sentence was far from being a joke.

The water was only a few degrees from being ice-cold and he shivered through the whole event. His teeth chattered together as he pulled his clothes back on. Minus his shirt. Because he had used it to soak up most of the drops rolling down his body. The leather of his jacket stuck to his slightly moist skin and he practiced putting on a composed face, ignoring the feel of it. He hoped Skinner and Ben would be out tonight, lying right after the fact always made him feel worse.

\- Hurry! Ramsay growled; his voice muffled through the car’s window. I need to take a shower, all that caked blood is starting to make my skin itch.

Damon got in, choosing to ignore Ramsay’s comment. He’d get his freezing shower someday, just you wait.

●

Damon was reassured when he didn’t see Ben’s truck in the parking lot of the apartment building. Maybe he’d gotten lucky for once.

But as he tiptoed across the linoleum, Ramsay’s headlights suddenly turned off and Damon, momentarily lost, rammed his big toe straight into the kitchen counter. He kept in the curse that threatened to spill from his lips, though he did choke on his own spit and the silent coughing was in no way helping his situation. He heard footsteps coming from the hallway leading to the bedrooms and he knew it was too late. He turned around, letting his foot down to the ground slowly, coming face to face with Skinner holding his trusty switchblade.

\- Damon? The older one questioned, the long hair and leather jacket reassuring him for a second.

Skinner flicked on the lights. His tensed shoulders slowly lowering as he moved his knife back where it belonged. The light reflected off his bald head, Damon swore he could see his reflection in it. He was wearing nothing but his jeans and a t-shirt from one of his favorite bands; _Trivium_.

\- What happened to you? You look like a drowned rat. Skinner said, his tone changing from shocked to disapproving when it dawned on him.

\- You were with him, weren’t you? He didn’t even need to ask.

Damon chocked on his words, unable to explain himself, he never was. He stood there defeated. Ramsay would kill him, the words echoed in his head.

\- You’ll tell me the truth someday. Skinner offered. Right now, I’m too tired for this bullshit. He turned around, making his way back to his room.

●

He hadn’t taken the effort to wash again and he smelled like chlorine as he settled on his squeaky mattress. His hair was full of knots and he considered hacking it off for good, but Ramsay had always liked it. He laughed suddenly, who cared what that bastard liked? When he was done, he had tears in his eyes, and he wasn’t sure what emotion they were meant to convey.

He let exhaustion pull him into slumber, all the while dreaming about a world where he would have the guts to tell the truth; a world without Ramsay.

* * *

** _Ramsay could hardly quell the grin stretching his face as he raised his phone to his ear._ **

The giddy feeling bubbling in his stomach made it hard not to laugh as he tapped the fingers of his left hand on the leather of the steering wheel. He had just dropped Damon off at the apartment he shared with his two “friends”, he’d parked the car right there in front of the rusty staircase, taunting the other teen from the inside of the car, keeping an eye on the window he knew Damon had just walked behind. He turned the key in the ignition, shutting off the motor and in turn the headlights.

Unfortunately, knowing the man he had just called he knew to force down the reaction. His lips thinned just as the ringing came to a halt and he decided to speak up before the other could get in a single word. 

\- I know, I know… He started nonchalantly. It’s nearly two in the morning but this is of utmost importance. His lips quirked slightly up on the last word.

\- If you’ve ruined things already don’t count on me to help you, bastard. The gruff voice spoke more out of tiredness than sleep, Roose had been awake. You were supposed to be back… an hour ago. He added, obviously unimpressed.

Ramsay’s good mood was crushed at the mention of _that_ word, he opted to ignore it, it wouldn’t do him any good to lose his cool. He gripped the steering wheel hard; it wasn’t his fault Damon lived so far away and that he’d insisted on cleaning up instead of getting caught covered in gore by his unsuspecting roommates. Because of him he was past his curfew and getting scolded on top of that. He was nearly eighteen, he didn’t need a bloody curfew. He pulled the phone away from his mouth, long enough to get out a calming breath and refocus on his plans.

\- I haven’t ruined anything, more like I’m doing what your son was never capable of. He said, keeping the smugness in his tone down to a minimum, but adding a chuckle to release some of the happiness swishing around in his stomach. You need to enroll me in the same school as that Greyjoy boy. It’s a genius idea. He finished, proud of himself.

\- What happened back there? Roose questioned, curious.

Ramsay took his sweet time recounting the events, putting emphasis on his favorite parts and omitting the details he believed useless. Roose was silent throughout the whole monologue, only the sound of his breath confirming his presence.

●

\- Come back to the mansion. Ramsay’s progenitor interrupted the teen’s tangent abruptly. You start on Monday. He added, before hanging up without waiting for a reply.

\- Yes... Father. Ramsay’s answer drifted off in the dark of the night, with not a soul to hear it.

●

As he settled down into bed after taking a well-deserved shower, Ramsay could finally enjoy the predictable success of his plan. He could see it already in his mind’s eye and as he stroked himself to completion, he could just imagine those puppy dog eyes staring up at him with undeterred devotion. Only one word left his lips as he came, his grip steel-hard on his shaft and the other on the driver's license, his eyes fixed on the black and white photo… Reek. Cum splattered the plastic rectangle a second later. 

Sleep was sweet and Ramsay dreamed of all he’d accomplish come Monday morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay is so nasty, I can't believe I really wrote this shit. The next day will probably be uploaded in separate parts and then edited into one chapter (just like the first day). I'll get there one day, a real finished story, can you believe it? Sorry about all the comments disappearing, guys. I had to clean things up a little.


End file.
